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THE 

MASTER  PRINTER’S 
RETURN 


WHAT  GUTENBERG  SAW  AMID  THE 
ROAR  OF  A MODERN  PRINTING 
WONDERLAND 


By 

HARRISON  HOUGHTON 


NEW  YORK 

PUBLISHED  BY  R.  HOE  AND  CO. 
191 1 


JOHANNES  GUTENBERG 
1400 — 1468 


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NE  day  not  long  ago  the  transparent  figure 
of  a man  made  its  way  warily,  almost  fear- 
fully, across  that  part  of  Twenty-Fifth 
Street  in  New  York  that  lies  between  Lex- 
ington and  Third  Avenues.  The  stranger 
scarcely  fitted  into  the  bustling  city  picture. 


The  face  was  keen,  long,  sharp,  and  bearded;  the  head  was 
topped  by  a black  cap;  the  body  was  hung  with  the  pic- 
turesque skirted  garb  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  was  the 
shade  of  Johannes  Gutenberg,  father  of  the  printing  press. 
He  had  been  following  the  trail  of  print  down  the  path  of 
the  years  until  now  he  stood  at  last  at  the  threshold  of  his 
largest  experience. 

Before  him  a great  yellow  building  reared  its  storied 
height.  As  he  paused  before  the  entrance  a mighty  rumble 
smote  his  ears.  The  structure  seemed  to  be  shaken  by 
some  tumult.  It  was  like  a thing  alive. 

The  shade  made  its  way  up  the  steps  to  the  second 
story,  and  there  came  to  his  nose  the  indescribable  smell 
of  ink,  and  it  was  as  sweet  to  his  nostrils  as  is  the  perfume 
of  clover  to  the  hungry  kine.  The  air  was  vibrant  with 
unleashed  energy;  on  all  sides  men  and  women  worked 
with  almost  feverish  swiftness.  He  was  now  within  the 
confines  of  the  world’s  greatest  magazine -plant;  nowhere 
else  was  there  a publication  plant  just  like  this. 

Day  after  day  an  endless  stream  of  magazines  flows 
from  it.  They  appeal  to  every  taste  and  every  inclination. 
Gutenberg  had  never  seen  so  much  printed  matter  in  his 
whole  life.  He  stood  amazed  in  the  midst  of  this  printing 
wonderland.  The  throb  of  things  stirred  even  his  ghostly 
soul.  It  seemed  to  rain  magazines,  and  yet  everything 
was  done  with  orderly,  if  quick,  precision.  Slowly  he 
made  his  way  through  the  maze  of  machines  where  the 
sections  of  the  magazines  were  being  put  together  (ioo 
miles  of  wire  are  required  to  staple  the  publications  each 
month),  down  the  busy  aisles  that  reeked  with 


G 


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1 hough  no  hand  guided  him,  the  old  Mainz  master 
seemed  to  be  proceeding  straight  toward  a definite  goal. 
Something  seemed  to  attract  him  to  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  vast  loft.  Its  herald  was  the  rattle  of  a mighty 
monster;  its  lure  the  swift,  unceasing  flood  of  magazines 
that  poured  from  it. 

Suddenly  Gutenberg  looked  up;  he  stopped  still,  rub- 
bed his  spectral  eyes,  and  then  beheld  what  seemed  to 
him  to  be  a whole  city  of  quivering  steel.  A thousand 
wheels  within  wheels  whirled  and  sang;  hundreds  of  gleam- 
ing rods  shot  back  and  forth;  the  electric  lights  flashed 
on  yards  of  glistening  brass.  At  one  end  were  huge  rolls 
of  paper;  at  the  other  a torrent  of  magazines  poured 
forth.  It  seemed  like  a marvelous  miracle. 

THE  WORLD’S  LARGEST  COLOR  PRESS 

Small  wonder  that  the  shade  of  Gutenberg  should  stand 
speechless  before  this  compelling  exhibit.  What  con- 
fronted him  was  a sight  that  brings  amazement  to  a vision 
much  more  modern.  It  was  the  throbbing  embodiment 
of  the  greatest  achievement  so  far  of  that  art,  preserva- 
tives of  arts,  which  began  more  than  four  hundred  years 
ago  in  a sleepy  German  town.  In  short,  here  was  the  last 
word  (and  the  biggest,  too)  in  the  making  of  a press. 

It  stands  like  a doubled-decked  steel  building,  every 
part  of  it  vital  and  alert.  Over  it  is  a sign  containing 
these  words: 


The  Largest  Multi-Color  Magazine  Press 
in  the  World 


And  it  looks  the  part.  So  human  is  this  splendid 
machine  that  the  makers,  R.  Hoe  & Co.,  have  named  it 
“The  Frank  A.  Munsey,”  and  it  bears  this  name  proudly 
on  a brass  plate,  just  as  a crack  cruiser  floats  its  admiral’s 
ensign  from  its  topmost  peak. 

This  giant  press  is  really  two  separate  presses  geared 


to  work  either  in  unison  or  separately.  Every  revolution 
of  the  cylinders  prints  384  magazine  pages,  or  as  much 
reading  matter  as  is  contained  in  three  ordinary  novels. 
The  electrotype  plates  for  a single  press-run  weigh  half 
a ton. 

The  achievement  of  this  wonderful  press  is  little  short 
of  incredible.  It  prints,  folds,  and  delivers  this  extraor- 
dinary output: 

144.000  eight-page  sections  an  hour  in  two  colors; 

72.000  eight-page  sections  an  hour  in  four  colors; 

72,000  sixteen-page  sections  an  hour  in  two  colors; 

72.000  sixteen-page  sections  an  hour — half  in  three 
colors,  half  in  one  color; 

36.000  sixteen-page  sections  an  hour  in  four  colors. 

Here,  indeed,  is  a universe  of  printed  matter  produced 

in  an  uncannily  short  space  of  time! 

And  yet,  this  towering,  roaring,  masterful  machine  was 
conceived,  designed,  and  built  to  turn  out  magazines  that 
sell  for  a dime. 

Long  and  silently  the  shade  of  Gutenberg  stood  before 
this  mastodonic  press.  How  different  it  was  from  that 
simple,  hand-made  contrivance  which  he  and  his  friend 
Fust  had  set  up  in  Mainz  in  those  long  years  ago;  how' 
infinitely  more  swiftly  came  the  flood  of  magazines  than 
did  the  famous  “ forty-two-line  Bible”  which  the  pioneers 
had  put  together  with  so  much  labor  and  pain  when  the 
printing  art  was  dawning. 

“ Wunderbar /”  (“Wonderful”)  said  the  shade,  as  he 
rubbed  his  eyes  some  more.  The  great  machine  seemed 
to  have  a peculiar  fascination  for  him.  He  walked  around 
it,  touched  its  gleaming  sides  that  were  now  hot  with 
action;  walked  to  the  rear  and  watched  the  great  white 
roll  of  paper  unfold  itself  into  the  printed  messages  that 
went  to  the  four  corners  of  the  world. 

Suddenly  a swift  sort  of  protest  came  from  the  press; 
the  wheels  slackened;  the  noise  died  down  to  a whisper, 


and  soon  the  tumultuous  mass  was  still.  With  a whisper 
the  wheels  ceased  from  action. 

But  as  this  noise  died  away  another  roar  burst  upon 
the  ears  of  the  astonished  shade.  From  another  corner 
of  the  great  space  occupied  by  this  huge  magazine  plant 
there  was  a sort  of  sister  tumult — the  call  of  more  Hoe 
presses.  Thither  the  shade  made  its  way,  once  more 
winding  among  the  noisy  confusion  of  a seething  business. 
As  he  turned  the  corner  he  seemed  to  come  upon  an  army 
of  presses. 

There,  rank  behind  rank,  were  the  host  of  the  Hoes, 
the  pounding  battery  of  rotary  presses.  It  seemed  as  if 
some  giant  director  were  waving  a master  wand,  and  that 
all  the  wheels  were  keeping  time  with  his  galvanic  beat. 

These  were  just  as  remarkable  in  their  way,  in  achieve- 
ment, operation,  simplicity,  and  result  as  their  huge  brother 
of  the  multi-color.  They  are  the  “flat-top”  variety,  and 
produce  1,680,000  sixteen-page  sections  a day,  or  about 
140,000  complete  magazines  save  for  the  colored  covers. 

On  every  press  the  word  Hoe  stood  out  and  seemed 
to  dominate  it. 

“ Alles  ist  Hoe”  (“Everything  is  Hoe”),  remarked  the 
shade  as  he  touched  the  name-plate  on  a quivering  press. 

He  stood  for  a long  time  watching  the  battery  of  presses 
in  their  apparently  ceaseless  movement.  His  foot  kept 
time  to  the  metallic  music  of  their  whirring.  Suddenly 
a whistle  blew;  the  din  ceased;  from  every  direction  hatted 
figures  hurried  out  into  the  open;  the  day’s  work  was  done. 

Still  the' shade  lingered  by  the  silent  presses;  the  smell 
of  ink  was  strong  in  the  air;  night  was  coming  on.  Slow- 
ly it  walked  back  to  the  giant  that  now  stood  still  and 
inert,  yet  projecting  a sort  of  potential  power.  He  stroked 
its  black,  oily,  glistening  sides,  and  remarked: 

uIch  habe  nicht  um  sonst  gelebet ” (“I  have  not  lived  in 

Then  he  vanished  into  the  dark. 


THE  SECOND  PHASE  OF  GUTENBERG'S 
JOURNEY  INTO  THE  WONDER- 
LAND OF  PRINT 


T WAS  afternoon  in 


the  Elysian  Fields. 

SThe  clouds  drifted  lazily  across  the  blue 
sky;  the  brilliant  sun  glittered  on  gleam- 
ing temple;  the  air  was  heavy  with  a 
langorous  peace.  Aloof  from  the  turmoil 
of  the  world,  the  Shades  of  Men,  stripped 
of  all  earthly  cares,  reclined  and  were  happy,  for  it  was 
like  the  land  of  the  Lotus-Eaters. 

Suddenly  a rustle  smote  the  lazy  air,  and  there  was  an 
unwonted  stir. 

“What  has  happened?"  they  asked. 

Then  they  saw  the  cause.  Down  the  main  highway 
there  strode  a picturesque  figure;  keen,  long,  sharp,  and 
bearded  of  face;  his  head  surmounted  by  a skull-cap; 
his  body  hung  with  the  robes  of  a medieval  craft.  In- 
stead of  the  reflective,  almost  benevolent  calm  that  had 
always  brooded  over  his  mien,  his  countenance  was  alive, 
his  eyes  shone,  and  he  seemed  laboring  under  great 
excitement. 

And  well  might  that  figure  be  excited,  for  it  was  the 
shade  of  Johannes  Gutenberg,  Father  of  the  Printing 
Press,  returning  from  his  journey  into  the  busy  domain 
of  men.  He  had  seen  a miracle,  and  he  was  eager  to 
proclaim  it.  As  he  neared  his  abiding-place  his  pace 
quickened,  and  he  appeared  to  hold  more  grimly  to 
something  that  was  concealed  under  his  robe. 

“Here,  here,"  he  shouted,  “I  have  wondrous  news!" 
Then  he  sat  down  on  a marble  bench  that  stood  in  front 
of  a replica  of  a certain  old  printing  house  in  Mainz. 

Through  its  quaint  doorway  came  a group  of  shades, 
old,  bearded,  and  garbed  like  himself.  Leading  them 
was  Johann  Fust,  the  Old  Master’s  partner,  who  had 


been  in  at  the  birth  of  printing  in  the  long  years  ago. 
Then  came  Peter  Schoffer,  the  son-in-law  of  Fust,  who 
had  also  been  through  the  travail  of  those  early  days. 

Scarcely  were  they  seated  at  the  feet  of  Gutenberg  than 
the  others  grouped  themselves  about  in  a circle.  They 
were  the  fellow  pioneers  who  had  blazed  the  path  of 
print  in  many  lands  and  under  many  difficulties  when  the 
art  was  young;  Caxton,  of  London;  Aldus,  of  Venice; 
Coster,  of  Haarlem,  and  Elziver,  of  Leyden.  Here,  in- 
deed, was  a mighty  company  which  had  created  the  art 
preservative  of  art,  whose  triumphant  and  undying  spirit 
rode  in  the  van  of  all  human  progress,  and  whose  name 
was  blessed  every  day  by  grateful  mankind. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  MIRACLE 

Then  Caxton  spoke: 

“Welcome  home,  Master.  What  is  that  you  have 
seen?” 

A great  light  broke  over  Gutenberg’s  face  as  he  replied: 

“My  eyes  have  beheld  the  glory  of  a marvelous  thing. 
At  first  it  seemed  only  a splendid  vision.  It  seemed  too 
miraculous  to  be  true.  But  it  is  true,  and  in  that  truth  is 
a great  message  for  you.” 

The  other  shades  now  crowded  about  him,  eagerness 
written  all  over  their  faces.  As  they  pressed  nearer, 
Gutenberg  drew  a large  picture  from  beneath  his  tunic 
and  held  it  up.  His  manner  was  that  of  a priest  dis- 
playing a holy  relic.  Holding  aloft  the  picture,  Guten- 
berg said: 

“Here,  my  brothers,  you  behold  the  realization  of  our 
great  dream.” 

“But  what  is  it?”  asked  Aldus,  as  his  mind  harked 
back  to  that  Venetian  day  when  the  waters  lapped  the 
door-step  of  his  printery  and  the  struggle  was  hard. 

“It  is  the  picture  of  the  greatest  printing  press  ever 
built,”  replied  Gutenberg  with  dignity  and  emphasis. 


WMt 


“It  is  called  ‘The  Frank  A.  Munsey,'  and  it  was  made 
by  R.  Hoe  & Co.  I saw  it  in  a wonderland  of  print, 
known  as  the  Munsey  Printing  Plant,  which  is  located  in 
a seething  kingdom  of  a city  called  New  York.”  He 
paused  a moment  as  the  memory  of  his  experience  swept 
over  him. 

“Now,”  continued  the  Master, “you  will  know  why  I 
disappeared  a short  time  ago.  One  day,  while  taking  my 
usual  walk,  the  perfume  of  printer's  ink  was  wafted  to 
my  nostrils.  It  stirred  me  like  a great  emotion.  I fol- 
lowed the  path  of  print  down  all  the  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  we  came  here  until  I reached  New  York; 
until  I found  myself  at  that  great  building,  larger  than 
our  finest  Rathhaus,  where  the  Munsey  publications  are 
printed.  There  I saw  this  monster  press,  roaring,  whirl- 
ing, and  producing  in  less  than  a minute  what  took  all 
the  presses  of  our  day  a whole  year  to  turn  out. 

“As  I stood  transfixed  by  the  sight,  a man  asked  me 
if  I would  like  to  have  a picture  of  the  press.  Of  course 
I said  yes.  I expected  him  to  sit  down  and  draw  one. 
Instead,  there  was  a flash  that  almost  blinded  me.  I 
leaped  back  in  horror,  expecting  to  be  struck  by  flying 
fragments  of  steel.  Instead,  the  smoke  cleared  away,  and 
there  stood  the  giant  press,  erect  and  quivering;  still  the 
magnificent  and  thrilling  embodiment  of  energy  and 
speed.  I could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes. 

“But  I was  destined  to  greater  surprise.  In  a few 
minutes  the  man  handed  me  this  picture,  which  was  a 
perfect  reproduction  of  the  press.  It  was  so  natural  that 
I expected  to  see  the  wheels  turn.  ‘Have  you  wrought 
a miracle?'  I asked.  ‘No,’  replied  the  man,  ‘we  have 
simply  taken  a flashlight  photograph’.” 

He  passed  the  picture  among  his  fellow  shades.  They 
handled  it  reverently. 

“The  wonder  of  it  all  is  that  one  man  directs  it!  By 
turning  a small  wheel  he  starts  the  forest  of  machinery, 


and  by  turning  it  again  he  can  stop  it.  Its  capacity  is 
prodigious.  I remember  that  at  every  revolution  of  the 
parts  called  cylinders  it  prints  enough  reading  matter  to 
fill  three  books.” 

THE  TREASURE  OF  A GUTENBERG  BIBLE 

Gutenberg  paused,  and  then  resumed  his  narrative. 

“Brothers,”  he  said,  “I  have  yet  to  tell  of  the  greatest 
revelation.  That  great  successor  of  ours — Robert  Hoe 
by  name,  blessed  be  his  memory — who  built  the  far-famed 
Munsey  presses,  and  the  hundreds  of  other  throbbing 
presses  that  proclaim  the  splendor  of  our  discovery 
throughout  the  world,  was  a collector  of  books.  Not 
long  ago  he  was  gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  all  of  his 
treasures  were  sold. 

“On  the  very  day  that  I beheld  his  masterpiece  in  steel 
they  sold  the  pride  of  his  collection.  And  what  do  you 
think  it  was?  It  was  my  own  forty-two  line  Bible  that  1 
made  with  my  hands  in  Mainz  in  those  beloved  days 
gone  by.  It  was  handled  like  a sacred  thing,  and  it 
brought — you  will  never  guess — the  sum  of  125,000 
gulden.  Think  of  it — a prince’s  ransom  for  my  poor 
work! 

“Brothers,  let  us  thank  our  stars  that  we  were  per- 
mitted to  work  in  the  past.  We  did  not  labor  in  vain.” 


r 


I AM  THE  PRINTING  PRESS 

By  Robert  H.  Davis 

I am  the  printing  press,  born  of  the  mother  earth.  My  heart  is  of 
steel,  my  limbs  are  of  iron,  and  my  fingers  are  of  brass. 

1 sing  the  songs  of  the  world,  the  oratorios  of  history,  the  symphonies 
of  all  time. 

I am  the  voice  of  today,  the  herald  of  tomorrow.  I weave  into  the 
warp  of  the  past  the  woof  of  the  future.  I tell  the  stories  of  peace  and 
war  alike. 

I make  the  human  heart  beat  with  passion  or  tenderness.  1 stir  the 
pulse  of  nations,  and  make  brave  men  do  braver  deeds,  and  soldiers  die. 

I inspire  the  midnight  toiler,  weary  at  his  loom,  to  lift  his  head  again 
and  gaze,  with  fearlessness,  into  the  vast  beyond,  seeking  the  consolation 
of  a hope  eternal. 

When  I speak  a myriad  people  listen  to  my  voice.  The  Anglo-Saxon, 
the  Celt,  the  Hun,  the  Slav,  the  Hindu,  all  comprehend  me. 

I am  the  tireless  clarion  of  the  news.  I cry  your  joys  and  sorrows 
every  hour.  I fill  the  dullard’s  mind  with  thoughts  uplifting.  I am  light, 
knowledge,  and  power.  I epitomize  the  conquests  of  mind  over  matter. 

I am  the  record  of  all  things  mankind  has  achieved.  My  offspring 
comes  to  you  in  the  candle’s  glow,  amid  the  dim  lamps  of  poverty,  the 
splendor  of  riches ; at  sunrise,  at  high  moon,  and  in  the  waning  evening. 

I am  the  laughter  and  tears  of  the  world,  and  I shall  never  die  until 
all  things  return  to  the  immutable  dust. 

I am  the  printing  press. 


HOE  & CO.’S  LIGHTNING  DOUBLE  OCTUPLE  NEWSPAPER  PERFECTING  PRESS 
THE  LARGEST  PRINTING  MACHINE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Capacity,  500, ooo  8-page  papers  an  hour,  other  products  proportionately; 
all  folded,  cut,  pasted  and  counted.  Will  also  print  in  colors  when  desired. 

Composed  of  approximately  65,000  pieces.  Weight,  550,000  pounds. 


m ipl 

, 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


3 0112  069086616 


